From Winter Winks 221: "You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."
Holmes curses that he was not called in to the investigation earlier. If he had been, he might have prevented the terrible fallout. Two men dead; one shot in the abdomen, the other through the mouth and into the back of the skull.
"It wasn't self-inflicted," Watson says of the gentleman whose brain matter is spattered across the nearest wall. "They killed each other."
Holmes, of course, sees the clues as well as Watson can and states the chain of deduction aloud to Inspector Bradstreet. Both men shot at each other, both fatally. It is a shame, a damned shame, and that Bradstreet expresses this sentiment repeatedly does not make it any less so.
The doctor and detective depart quickly, hailing a cab so as to be back home as soon as possible. It is Holmes who flags the cab down, Watson silent beside him.
Halfway back to Baker Street, Holmes remarks, "Mrs Hudson will be pleased we are back so early. She said that leg of lamb would go to waste otherwise."
Watson does not respond and hot shame floods Holmes. Who is he to discuss such mundane matters after what they have just witnessed?
They arrive at 221B, Mrs Hudson greeting them with some surprise. Watson goes upstairs, leaving Holmes - unusually - to explain the reason for their early return.
"I'll bring up the lamb then." Mrs Hudson glances uncertainly upstairs. "Is the Doctor alright?"
Holmes reassures her that he is fine - Watson is almost always fine - but finds his conclusions deteriorating when he enters an empty living room. He considers knocking at Watson's door, but decides against it. The man is entitled to his rest, after all.
The next morning, Holmes wakes late. There are no new cases on the horizon and, in years gone past, he may have been tempted to indulge in cocaine to stimulate him. He has long since abandoned the habit, however, so sets to rearranging his annals instead.
It strikes him, just as the clock on the mantle strikes two, that he has yet to see Watson. He rises from the mess of papers and glances down into the hallway - coat and hat still on the hat stand, cane propped against the wall. He goes upstairs and taps lightly on the door.
The door opens. Watson stands there, dressed but disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes.
"What's wrong?" Holmes enquires before he can stop himself. "Why aren't you up yet?"
Watson only shakes his head and makes to close the door, but Holmes stops it with his hand.
"I know I spoke once of your grand gift for silence, Watson, but I did not mean it quite this literally."
"I am tired." The flat tone of Watson's voice sets Holmes's nerves on edge. "Is there something you need?"
"Yes," he retorts with a petulance he didn't know he possessed. "The Eidenmueller case, was it Autumn '96 or '97?"
"Not a clue."
The door snaps firmly shut.
It is only the next morning Watson ventures into the living room. By now Holmes's own reactive ire has cooled somewhat, and he eyes the doctor warily. They have had spats and fights before this, but usually Holmes has at least an inkling of his own part in them. This time, however, he is entirely in the dark - a feeling which he, more than any other man, utterly despises.
"i cannot speak of it." Watson's voice is tight, carefully controlled, but a damn sight better than the lifeless words he had spoken the afternoon before. "I doubt I will talk much at all for a few days yet. I am unlikely to be good company, so if you would rather I remain in my room, you need only say so."
Holmes practically burns with questions. He cannot help as his eyes dart over Watson, cataloguing every detail. The Doctor has not slept, still not eaten since two days ago, and is wearing the same clothes as yesterday. But, despite what some claim, Holmes is not a mind-reader. He is, however, curious; deciding to leave this particular mystery unsolved takes all of his not inconsiderable willpower.
"I have been rearranging my records." He strides to the corner of the room, still a chaotic jumble of strewn papers. "I found a case of some interest, one from before we met. Perhaps I might recount it to you? it shall help me set my notes in order."
Watson's eyes do not alight with the usual interest such an offer would usually inspire, but he does come to join Holmes, and listens quietly as the detective relates his tale. A few times Holmes notices his friend's eyes grown distant as his attention diverts... but it is never too long before he comes back to what his friend is saying.